


in the blossom of the light

by MissFlitworth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Missing Scene, Slice of Life, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFlitworth/pseuds/MissFlitworth
Summary: Just a moment in a different garden, much lower stakes. hanging out before armageddon, nor doing much nannying or gardening.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 10





	in the blossom of the light

The garden looks beautiful. Crowley likes to stand in the nursery window and look out, when Warlock is napping or under someone else’s care. Aziraphale putters around with a basket, sometimes kneels with a small trowel, but Crowley becomes quickly aware that he has no idea how humans garden. Things just grow for him. It’s not neat and obsessively presented like the other diplomatic houses along the street, it’s wild. Weeds and flowers grow in riotous colours, everything in harmony with each other, even the ivy. The lawns are green and bright in the centre, where the under gardeners mow and weed and see to things, but it runs into meadow and tall grasses and little flowers scattered as it reaches the borders. Aziraphale is indiscriminate when he loves, and here he is  _ allowed  _ to love. Without strictures, without a million and one rules. He doesn’t worry about every little thing. It makes Crowley’s chest ache. 

“Did I do it wrong?” Aziraphale asks, one day. 

They’re sat under a tree far away from the house and any people, on a swinging bench with fancy patterned cushions. Aziraphale brought a flask of what Crowley assumed was tea but turned out to be a cocktail. Crowley takes a sip from her bright yellow picnic cup to stall for time, trying to work out what Aziraphale’s on about. She stopped listening a while ago, distracted by the birds. 

“What’s with the birds?” She asks, instead of answering. 

“Oh, they just seem to like it here,” Aziraphale says, flushing, looking up at the sky trying to look innocent. 

“That’s a jay,” Crowley says. “I’ve not seen one in London before.”

“There are some here. Sometimes there are parrots,” Aziraphale says, enthusiastically, lighting up and beaming at Crowley. 

“Brilliant, right. Do you mean the garden?” Crowley says, something finally surfacing. Mrs Dowling was talking this morning about the lawn. 

“I thought it was wonderful, to let everything grow,” Aziraphale says. He looks anxious and tense and unhappy. 

“It is. Maybe they want it all lines and fashionable,” Crowley says. She’s pretty sure humans are into minimalism and starkness these days. It’s cool. Like her flat. “Did they ask you to change it? They must’ve given some instructions or something.”

She’s not sure. So far, she’s mostly been let alone, she can do what she likes with Warlock and the nursery, she hasn’t been given many instructions. 

“Who?” Aziraphale asks. “Did who ask me?”

“I thought someone said something to you,” Crowley says. 

“I overheard James and Pierre talking about the garden,” Aziraphale says. Crowley frowns, wondering who the fuck they are and if she can set them on fire. “The gardeners who do the lawns. Leave them be, they’re nice boys.”

“Under gardeners. Right. ‘Nice boys’,” Crowley says. “No, you didn’t do it wrong.”

He tells Aziraphale about weeds and what she’s heard on BBC four about gardening the human way, including about threatening them to make them grow better. Aziraphale gives him a long look, then shrugs, settling himself more comfortably. Crowley tops up their picnic cups from the tartan flask and sits back, sprawling. She’s wearing a pencil skirt but she’s got it hoiked up her thighs so it’s more comfy. 

“I like it here,” she says. 

“Oh, you do?” Aziraphale asks, pleased. “Me too.”

Crowley draws up her legs and tucks her feet under her, which shifts her close against Aziraphale. The garden blooms around them, every plant, every weed, every bird and beast cherished. Even the slugs. 


End file.
